


Gift of the Gods

by RedFlagsAndDiamonds



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: AU, Canon-Typical Violence, Multi, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 12:15:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedFlagsAndDiamonds/pseuds/RedFlagsAndDiamonds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stung by the deaths of his two sons, Haraldson claims a Saxon infant on a raid, and raises him as his own child to serve as a comfort to himself and his wife - only for the mild, soft-tempered child to shatter every belief the norsemen uphold.</p>
<p>VikingAthelstan AU<br/> Inspired by the kinkmeme</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gift of the Gods

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired partly by a kink meme prompt, in which Athelstan is Haraldson and Siggys' third son, who went missing when his brothers were killed.  
> In this AU, Haraldson has already taken the initiative and begun raiding England, at least a decade before Ragnar.  
> Enjoy!

Haraldson grimaced.  
It was a poor town – hardly more than a scattering of wood beam huts covered with straw, and not at all worth the expense of the raid, the miserable weeks crossing the sea, the wet and the cold...  
It was the last house – twenty-two buildings, and all they had to show for it was a chest of forty-six coins, several bronze rings, and a woman’s armband. The anger and disappointment was palpable amongst his men, and when they discovered the last, hapless family of English pigs, sniveling behind walls of woven sticks, he had no intention of ordering them to hold back their fury.

There was a soft sound – like a knife through meat – as his axe cleaved into the body of the Englishman, his face frozen in an expression of dull-witted shock. His weight tugged him free of the blade, and he crumpled to the dirt floor like the fat sheared from a hog’s belly.  
The woman was still screaming – probably his wife, assuming these plump-faced, cold-blooded slugs even held marriage sacred. With a snort of disgust, he gave a curt nod to Gristig, and her screams died the instant a knife sliced across her throat, the man on top of her still rutting for all he was worth.  
Three of the children – all boys – lay dead on the floor, pale guts spilling over their rough wool tunics. Another had put up more of a fight – a thin-bladed dagger, likely his first, lay next to him in the puddle of his own blood. The girl was too young to be of any use – she lay by her mother.  
He had been on the verge of ordering his men to torch the place, when a soft, mewling cry cut through the blood and urine-scented air, prompting looks of shock from some and chuckling from others as they rolled their eyes.  
The Jarl said nothing, his face impassive as he moved slowly towards the woven basket in the corner, and ripped aside the stained cheesecloth laid across the top –

He felt the breath shudder from his lungs.  
Thorbrand’s wild blue eyes stared wonderingly from the small face, the head crowned with wisps of Oleif’s dark hair... Impossible, this little amalgamation of his four month-dead sons, and yet the proof lay before him, wriggling under the linen covers.  
Aware of the incredulous glances exchanged between the men, Haraldson shrugged off his fur, wrapping it around the infant as he lifted him into his arms. The child mewled piteously, likely hankering for his mother and her milk, but otherwise made no complaint – he only gazed upward, meeting grey-blue eyes strangely similar to his own, and banishing the last doubts within the Jarl’s mind.

*

None of the raiders dared make any comment when the chieftain held the infant to his chest for the entire duration of the homeward journey, feeding him with drops of goat milk taken from the English stables, squeezed in drops from a rag. The child made not a single noise of complaint throughout the voyage – any tears were all but silent, frozen on his silken cheeks, and in the hours of daylight he only sucked quietly at his fingers, or played with the dark hair of the man who held him.   
As the boy drifted to sleep in the crook of his arm, Haraldson ran a calloused palm over the little skull, eyes turned to the stars overhead as he whispered...  
“Such a gift, Lords... Such a gift...”

*

Her dreams were always haunted. Blood, black soil, the sickly sweet odor of death – her sons’ rotting hands reaching from the ashes of the pyre they shared, clutching at her gown, her hair, her arms –   
A hand touched her shoulder.  
Siggy lurched awake with a shriek, which vanished down her throat the moment she recognized her husband’s pale eyes in the blackness. Her breath shuddered as she pulled him over top of her on their generously sized bed, her stick-like fingers digging into his thick furs, his dark hair.   
He held her to him, relishing her honeyed scent, struggling to ignore the grotesque feel of her ribs jutting out beneath her nightdress.   
Grief could waste the body better than any disease.  
Eventually he eased himself free of her grip, dragging his thumbs gently across her wan face, smearing the plant dyes that concealed her red-rimmed eyes.  
She must have noticed the bright glint in his expression, for her own faced altered quickly from one of heady relief to a bewildered half-smile.  
“What?”  
He kissed her brow, before grasping one of her thin hands with a murmured “Come.”   
Confused, she slid from beneath the furs and followed silently, allowing herself to be led to a nearby antechamber – and gasped, her body trembling as she took in the sight.  
The cradle – a beautiful creation of burnished wood, carved in the image of a ship - had been returned to it’s old place by the fire, and among the dozens of soft rabbit furs something small could almost be seen, shifting it’s little limbs...  
With a muffled sob, Siggy dropped to her knees by the cradle, her eyes shining as the child watched her through large blue eyes, cooing softly. Hesitantly, as though afraid she might be burnt, she stroked a finger down the child’s plump cheek, rubbing away the little tracks of salt and relishing the half-forgotten, velvet sensation of an infant’s flesh. The child suddenly reached up with a quiet gurgle and seized at her thumb, the little fingers strong despite their size, and her tears finally spilled free, illuminated by her smile.  
“It – It’s a boy?” she whispered, terrified that any louder sound might shatter the dream.  
Her husband caressed the back of her neck, through the clumps of her tangled hair as she finally reached into the cradle and lifted the squirming little body into her arms.  
“He’s our boy.”  
*

No questions were asked when the lady Siggy appeared in the Hall after many weeks, an undeniable glow of happiness radiating from her eyes and a dark haired infant cuddled to her breast.  
The seer called down blessings, the population offered congratulations and praise, and any suspicious, surprised, or strange glances Haraldson had put to the axe.   
The child was theirs, by right if not blood.   
And may Hel come to any who dared enlighten the boy otherwise.


End file.
